The confessions of a Death Eater
by Suuri Illusioni
Summary: Draco Malfoy has bought himself a diary. He wants to explain. [ON HOLD]
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

If you have read George Orwell's _Nineteen Eighty-Four_, you'll probably notice that this prologue owes to its first chapter. I, naturally, don't own that either.

**Author's Notes: **This is my first attempt at a little longer fanfic (first was a one-shot _Song_). I don't know yet how long this is going to be, though I have the basic plot figured out. Please tell me what you think and remember that flames will be used to keep me warm, and since it's summer maybe to roast me some veggies, but constructive criticism is always welcome.

**Warnings: **I think it's fair to warn you in advance that even though it has none now, this story will later on contain some violence, angst and m/m pairing(s).  No like, no read, okay?

Who-Am-I-0-0 proudly presents _The confessions of a Death Eater_.

Enjoy!

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**Prologue**

Draco Malfoy had bought himself a diary. An ordinary, but elegant _muggle_ diary. It was a book bound in fine leather, with pages of thick creamy white paper. He himself couldn't quite explain why he had bought it. One day as he was waiting for his father outside a store in Diagon Alley, he ventured into muggle London and found a quiet antique shop just outside the wizard side of the city. There he had found this book. Somehow it had intrigued him and he just had to have it.

Now, back at Malfoy Manor looking at the diary he still couldn't explain _why_. The fascination was still there but he was unable to put a finger on what exactly it was. Part of it might simply have been that it was something forbidden, a muggle thing. He knew that if it was found, he couldn't explain it away. There was no logical explanation as to why he had a muggle diary. His father wouldn't –couldn't- understand it.

He wondered to himself the beauty of it. Yes – it was truly beautiful in its simplicity. Handmade, with care and respect. It was amazing to him that something so close to perfection could be done without magic. Somewhere deep inside he felt respect for those who long ago had made it. Respect for muggles, even long dead muggles – yes, his father should never find out about the book, nor his little trip to the muggle side of the city.

By simply admiring a muggle made object he was disobeying his father and his Master. To make matters worse that was not the sole purpose of it. He had other plans than just to marvel the handiwork. He was planning on writing to it, to stain the perfect sheets of paper with ink. Now, writing a diary in itself wasn't forbidden but Draco knew that what he would eventually write would be treachery.

Lately he had started to question his choices and the choices he was supposed to make. Little by little his adoration and blind worship had turned into something else. Slowly doubt and suspicion started creeping in to his mind. His father's actions didn't seem as wise anymore. He remembered what his father had told him when he was a child. Malfoys are their own masters, Malfoys do not kneel down before anyone, Malfoys do not submit to anyone's will but their own. At first when Voldemort was gaining power again Draco had thought that his father wouldn't join, that he'd  stay on his own. Then he had believed that Voldemort was the most powerful wizard and Lucius stayed with him only to gain more power, that his father was cunning and looking after his own interests. At some point he started to doubt it. Lucius was too close to be a traitor, when he wasn't any more powerful, he had to be serious. And Draco had seen it in his eyes. The last straw must have been when Potter told him, spat at some meaningless argument, that Voldemort was a half-blood.

He couldn't believe it at first. It was clear to him that he was mad and not truly as powerful as he led people to believe, but a half-blood? That couldn't be true. After doing some research, of course discreet enough not to let anyone notice, the realisation started sinking in. Voldemort really was good at manipulating minds. And his father had bought it all. Or had he? Draco had no idea whether  his father knew the truth or not. In a way he hoped he didn't. That way he would be able to hold on to at least a shred of respect for Lucius. To know that he was fooled. But Lucius was a hard man to deceive, Draco knew that from experience. He probably knew and followed him anyway.

Since then Draco's mind had been filled with what ifs and buts. What if _they_ were right? Dumbledore and  - Merlin forbid - Potter? What if there really was another way? But how could he, a son of a known Death Eater and a Death-Eater-in-training, take it? Would they believe him? Would they protect him? For he knew that if he wished to stay with his family, he was eventually to follow his father's footsteps. Now he was beginning to be certain that it wasn't what he wanted.

Gone this far in his musings, Draco Malfoy sighed, and then carefully opened the leather-bound diary. The empty page seemed inviting to him. He grabbed a quill and a bottle of ink but then hesitated. He realised that he had never written a diary before. He didn't know where to start and to whom would he address this. To whom, he now began to wonder, did he write this? To himself, or to the following generations, a guideline not to repeat the mistakes of this age and the mistakes of his own? To his family – to explain it all? Or to whoever who might find this? If – and when, he now believed – the Dark side lost, Malfoy Manor was sure to be examined thoroughfully and then his diary would be found. In the diary he would explain everything, not that it would make any difference then. He tried to imagine the person who found it. Surely it had to be an Auror or Albus Dumbledore himself. He would be the one leading the side of Light, no matter who was the Minister of Magic.

He didn't want to write to, or for, a faceless Auror or Dumbledore. Then it suddenly hit him. Of course, the Boy-Who-Lived, he would write to Harry Potter. To him he would like to tell all of his pain, explain everything. Maybe he would understand. Somehow Draco had a feeling he really would.  

He lifted the quill he had not realised he had dropped and dipped the tip in the midnight-blue, nearly black ink. He watched in awe as the ink slowly stained the perfect whiteness and almost laughed at the symbolism of it. Then he began to write.

_My name is Draco Lucius Malfoy and today is my 17th birthday. I am spending it at home because of a special request from my father. He said he wanted to celebrate my coming of age. I know it isn't true. He wants to "teach me some customs". I attend the Hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry. It is my sixth and second to last year there. I know that in four months, when the summer vacations begin, I will receive the Dark Mark. And I don't want it._

Here Draco stopped, out of breath and shaking. He had written it down. If this was found, he was as good as dead, but not before being horribly tortured. He took a few deep breaths and continued writing.

_I don't want to be one of _his_ mindless minions, because I am a Malfoy who still remembers what that means. And I don't want to die because of a whim of some half-blooded madman._

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To be continued…

It was short-ish, I know…

The title is a bit off, so if you can think of a better one do tell me!


	2. Chapter One: The Meeting

**Author's Notes:** Like you probably have noticed, this is an **R** rated story, and this will start earning the rating from this chapter on. For disclaimer and other stuff, see ch 1, or the prologue to be more exact..

And without further ado, Who-Am-I-0-0 proudly presents:

**The confessions of a Death Eater:**

**Chapter One: The Meeting**

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"Life here for her was no longer a picture book for children, which you look at and then throw away. She knew she had to live this book, and now she had a feeling that there was something fearfully compelling about the book…"

_Pessi and Illusia_, by Yrjö Kokko, 1944

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Three weeks had gone without Draco touching the diary. He hadn't touched it since the night of his birthday. Then he hadn't known how to continue and he had been interrupted by his mother telling him to come down for his birthday-dinner. He had quickly hidden the diary to his trunk. After that he had been scared , scared of what he might write, scared of the memories it might wake. Of course to the outside he had kept his facade, he had had a lot oh practice for that lately.

It was now middle of the night and Draco had woken up from a dream he could half remember. Something about it bothered him. Faces, some of which he knew, some he had never seen, pleading him not to hurt them. His mother had been there, too, crying. Why, he had no idea. The dream was starting to fade and soon all he could remember of it was the anxiety it had left in him.

He quietly opened his trunk - he didn't want to wake the others up, it would have disturbed his plan - and dug out the leather-bound diary. He had a sudden urge to write. He thought of the Death Eater meeting his father had taken him to after his glorious birthday meal. (Everything about the Malfoys had to be glorious, both in good and bad. Of course the latter was never mentioned, but everyone _knew_.) The horrid images filled his mind and he felt as if he was back in that night. He tried to calm down to be able to write. He had to get it out of his system somehow and writing about it in his diary seemed the healthiest option, and safest.

_I attended a Death Eater meeting. It was my first but I do not think it will remain my last. Father and I Apparated to the place it was held, where, I do not know. It seemed to be a small castle or a mansion. I couldn't tell anything of the landscape since a fog, magical I'm sure, was surrounding the building. You couldn't have told whether it was in the middle of the night or bright day outside. Inside it was the darkest night._

_The hall we were in was slowly filling with dark-robed and masked figures. Father had lend me matching ones – how very thoughtful of him. A few people I could recognise from simply the way they were standing or walking. (I could write down a list of names but I doubt it'd do any good.) At this point everybody was wearing their masks._

_Suddenly everybody went quiet and tensed. It did not take me long to figure out what was going to happen. Seemingly out of thin air (they did not Apparate, I am sure of that) appeared first Pettigrew and shortly after a figure who had to be Lord Voldemort. Small, hunch-backed and didn't seem impressive before he turned his burning red eyes on you. No one could hold his gaze longer than just a few short moments. I repeated in my mind like a mantra "crazy half-blood, crazy half-blood" and tried to stay calm. Luckily his eyes didn't reach mine._

_I concentrated so hard on keeping my pose that I missed most of what was said in the first part of the meeting. Then suddenly most people left, via Portkeys. Now that I think of it, maybe the Inner Circle is allowed to Apparate to these little _gatherings._ There were only a dozen people or so left now. Father wordlessly guided me with the others to a smaller room upstairs. This was, as was soon told me, the Inner Circle. People started taking of their masks but the atmosphere was far from relaxed, it was in fact even more tense. Father told me to take of my mask as well and as I complied, I spotted Severus Snape. As he noticed me, I saw something in his eyes that could have been surprise, disappointment or merely a trick of light. A moment later the mask he wore as a face was intact again._

_Voldemort (I decided not to call him 'Lord', at least not here) came in and started a speech about mudbloods and muggles and their numerous flaws. He included his magnificent plans to bring down Dumbledore, Potter and other 'scum-loving idiots'.  I, again, was not concentrated on this bigoted crap and was woken from my reverie as I heard him mention my name. Suddenly alert again, I heard him introduce me and tell me that I was given this honour to attend the Inner Circle meeting because of my father's loyalty and that I was expected to follow in his footsteps soon. Then he told that he had a little 'treat' for the occasion._

_About ten people were brought in. Muggles and wizards alike, in the eyes of some the uppermost emotion was puzzlement and of the rest sheer terror. Voldemort lifted his wand to cast a spell I didn't recognise. A young man standing close to me started shaking. From his face I could see he was fighting back a scream. He must have been a wizard, and a fairly strong one considering how long he could hold it in. Eventually he broke and terrified I watched as he fell on his knees and uttered an awful cry. It was not loud but so desperate and hopeless, filled with sadness and yet in a peculiar way rebellious. Had he seen something in my eyes? I wish I knew who he was..._

_As if on que they all took their wands and started throwing curses at the people who had barely had time to register what had happened to the first one who was again and again hit by various curses by Voldemort._

_Some used the traditional cruciatus-curse but most were a bit more ..creative. I watched mesmerised as one was ripped open from the inside, as if something was _in him_ and trying to claw its way out. Deep wounds appeared as he screamed in agony. _

_Screams filled the air, ear-piercing screams, faces contorted with pain convulsing limbs blood from deep wounds screams pain pettigrew raping the young wizard thrusting in him violently the pain in his eyes a single tear in the corner of his eye pain cries  _

At this point Draco's quill snapped into two. Sweating and breath coming in short gasps Draco stared at the page. The ink was smeared in places and instinctly he touched his cheek. It was wet, with sweat and something that had to be tears. It took Draco a while to realise that it in fact was him who was sobbing quietly in the dark dormitory. _Malfoys do not cry._

Draco was exhausted now and silvery tears running down his cheek he lowered his head on his pillow with one thought in his head. During the whole meeting, and it had gone on for what must have been hours, Professor Snape had not lifted his wand to torture the victims, and Draco was fairly sure he had been the only one to notice.

As sleep finally claimed him he pondered whether he should go see the Potions Master about this. 

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**Author's Notes:** Thank you **chisox727** and **Scoopy** for reviewing the prologue (and I'll keep the title then, at least for now..)

Please tell me what you think and remember that constructive criticism is always welcome!


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